A Matter of Taste
by msgenevieve447
Summary: He's an adventurous man, but some things truly are an acquired taste. (prompt: Hook made that quick comment about Granny's lunch specials in the last ep. How about him eating lunch at Granny's everyday trying out this world's food and giving Emma daily updates on the meals he likes and doesn't like.) CAPTAIN SWAN


There are many things he finds wondrous about this new realm in which he finds himself.

Granny's lunch specials, however, are not amongst them.

* * *

Monday is fish sticks.

Emma looks at him over the top of her drink, the glass faintly distorting the knowing curve of her smile. "Something wrong with your lunch?"

"A true man of the sea knows a quality catch from one that should have been cast back into the depths post-haste, Swan." He pokes at the breaded and fried strips of _something_ with his fork. "And this creature should have been consigned to the mercy of Poseidon, not served up with a white sauce."

She's biting her bottom lip now, carefully not looking at him as she applies herself to her own food. He's been lead to believe it's a toasted cheese sandwich, but the cheese in this realm is strangely coloured (_a bovine's milk is not and will never be orange_, he thinks with a shudder) and has a sheen to it that defies belief. "You should learn to be more adventurous with your food."

He lets his knee brush against hers beneath the table top, and enjoys watching the resulting flush tinge her cheekbones. "I'm an adventurous man, Swan, but even I have my limits."

Rolling her eyes, she takes another bite of her sandwich, but not before she mutters two muffled and rather confusing words beneath her breath. "_Drama queen_."

* * *

Tuesday is the famed lasagne, and while he's grateful for the generous portion, the cheese is once again the colour of a foreign sunset and he cannot bring himself to trust it. There is also a slippery characteristic to the dish that makes him wonder how much ground animal meat actually found its way into Granny's cooking pot.

The woman in question frowns when she comes to clear his half-finished plate. "Not to your liking?"

He hastily pats his stomach, doing his best to assume the expression of a man well satisfied by his meal. "It has defeated me, milady."

Granny narrows her steel grey eyes at him, but merely picks up the plate. "Can I get you something else?"

"_No._" She appears startled by his vehement reply, and he hastily adds, "Thank you , milady, but I shall sample another of your fine offerings tomorrow."

Tomorrow is, of course, Wednesday, which is fried bologna sandwiches, and not even Henry's pleading can keep him from heading to The White Rabbit for a pint instead.

* * *

Thursday is corned meat hash, and he can't help but feel that _hash_ is a painfully apt description. He eats it, because he is famished and at least he recognises every ingredient, but the taste of cabbage reminds him unpleasantly of cold hovels and empty bellies. Later that day, he has a mild rant on the subject while sitting on the edge of the Sheriff's desk, and Emma shakes her head at him.

"Look, they're called lunch specials because they're cheaper than the rest of the menu," she explains, not bothering to hide the fact she is clearly amused by his culinary annoyances. "And because they're cheaper, sometimes they're not made with the same-" she pauses, as if trying to find the words that will slander the Widow Lucas' reputation the least, "-_care _and ingredients as the other things on the menu."

"Ah, I see." He smiles, because he does prefer it when things make sense. "It's a matter of commerce, rather than poor cooking skills."

"Well, not always." Emma purses her lips in thought, or perhaps simply to taunt him. "Maybe I should come tomorrow." He opens his mouth (because, really, he can't_not_ say something, surely) but she obviously sees the intended devilry in his eyes. "_To lunch._"

He smiles, knowing he would eat boiled turnips for a month if it meant he could dine in her company. "Nothing would delight me more, Swan."

* * *

Tomorrow is Friday and it brings Emma Swan to his table once more, but something called Poutine, and he's shaking his head even as it's placed in front of him. Because, stars above, it is a dog's breakfast, not a lunch special, and he cannot believe that Swan would even consider ordering such a thing on his behalf.

"Definitely not."

"Woah." Emma wraps her hand around his wrist as he goes to reach for the menu in search of a substitute that looks less like a wild beast's flattened carcass one might find on the side of the road. "You can't say you don't like something if you won't even try it."

He looks down at her hand, imagining he can feel the heat of her palm through the sleeve of his coat. "I could say the same to you, love." He leans towards her, elbows pressed hard into the table top, letting his gaze brush over her mouth. "Or have you decided that one taste was quite enough to sate your appetite?"

Her lips part on the softest of inhaled breaths, her green eyes glittering, then she shakes her head. "We're talking about lunch here."

He isn't prepared to let her escape from her blushes so easily. "What makes you think I wasn't?"

"Listen, _mate, _don't talk to me about trying new things." She hands him a fork. "I had to eat roast Chimera in the enchanted forest, so you can try this."

"Ah, Chimera." He wrinkles his nose at the thought. "Too gamey for my liking."

She wrinkles her nose back at him, and he tries and fails not to stare at the freckles dusting her pale skin. "Too many legs for mine." She points at the quivering mass of fried potato sticks and curds and gravy on the plate before him. "Trust me."

With a long-suffering sigh, he tries the bloody poutine, and tries not to give her the satisfaction of being right by finishing his plate in record time.

* * *

Saturday and Granny's closed for repairs (two-week old flying monkey damage to the back wall), and they drink coffee and eat sandwiches made with Henry's favourite creamed and salted peanut spread at the loft. Emma has managed to procure a loaf of bread that reminds him very much of the bread his mother used to bake. _It's sourdough_, she tells him. _I had the feeling you'd like it. _ She makes him a second sandwich without him having to ask, handing his plate back to him with an indulgent smile, and he feels a warmth curling through his belly that has absolutely nothing to do with the coffee.

* * *

Sunday apparently means breakfast is served from sunrise to sunset, and he watches with a smile (and the hint of a shudder) as Henry pours maple syrup over his entire plate, covering cured bacon and sweet pancakes alike. Sitting beside her son, Emma raises one perfectly shaped eyebrow across the table. "Not your thing?"

He takes a mouthful of his scrambled eggs (thankfully, there's little damage that can be done to such a simple meal), then shakes his head. "I'm sure it's lovely."

She flashes him an eloquent look that he can't quite decipher, but says nothing more on the subject, apparently content to listen to Henry explain the notion of man-made satellites and the mysterious GPS. It's only when her son has devoured his food and slid from their booth to visit to his grandparents at the other end of the diner that she meets his gaze properly. "You really should try it." Spearing a small piece of bacon on her plate, she dips it in the syrup then holds the fork out to him. "Unless you're afraid of trying two new things in one week."

The soft challenge in her voice has his blood warming as surely as she'd laid her hands on him. "When it comes to you, Swan," he murmurs as he wraps his hand around hers rather than taking the fork from her grasp, pulling it towards his mouth, "I'll try anything once."

Her eyes darken at his words (or perhaps the touch of his hand, he dares to hope) and he sees her swallow hard. He slides the fork into his mouth, the sensation of smoky sweetness and salty bacon exploding on his tongue, and he has to admit that the Saviour and her son have a point. "I stand corrected."

He licks his bottom lip, catching the last traces of salt and sticky syrup, and her hand twitches in his grasp, her eyes darkening further, a dark green blaze. Feeling as though he is truly playing with fire (in front of her parents, no less) he goes to drop her hand, but her fingers curl around his. Startled, he stares at her, his pulse stuttering as she inclines her head cautiously to where her parents are holding court in the far booth, then lets her eyes lock with his.

"Come to the loft for dinner."

He tries not to read too much into her polite offer. They've shared a meal in her home many times, after all. "Are you offering to prepare an evening meal for me, Swan?"

"Well, that might be pushing it." She leans across the table, her eyes alight with a smile he's before never seen grace her lips. "My parents and Henry are going to Archie's for dinner, so it might be frozen pizza, or toasted sandwiches or even some terrible cabbage-laced takeaway from here, seeing as it would just be you and me." She looks at him with wide, guileless eyes, and his breath catches in his throat. "Unless that's a problem?"

"No." He releases her hand before he does something utterly irretrievable like press it to his mouth to taste the salty sweetness of her skin. "That's not a problem."

Her answering smile makes him think he could possibly stand_two_ months of boiled turnips if she asked it of him, although he sincerely hopes it never comes to that. He's an adventurous man, but even he has his limits.


End file.
